


Your Mileage May Vary

by batwayneman



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne's bad driving habits, Fluff, Gen, Only main characters are tagged but other batfam members are mentioned sporatically, batfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batwayneman/pseuds/batwayneman
Summary: Five times Bruce drove like a maniac and one time he didn't.





	Your Mileage May Vary

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [ LemonadeGarden ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/pseuds/LemonadeGarden) for reading this over for me!
> 
> Also, I don't actually know anything about cars.

**Dick Grayson**

Bruce glanced up at the rearview mirror, double-checking that Dick still had his seatbelt on. He forgot to put it on, sometimes, but Bruce also wouldn’t put him past him to take it off in frustration.

Dick was staring up at the roof of the car, eyes shut tight and limbs slumped in exasperation. Bruce looked back to the road.

“B. We’re gonna be late,” Dick pleaded, as if he hadn’t been repeating the same sentence for the last five minutes.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours! Because you’re driving like you’re a great-grandmother,” he muttered darkly.

“I,” Bruce said, guiding the car around a slight bend, “am not the one who made us turn around at the end of the driveway because I forgot my book report in my room –” he started talking louder over Dick’s protests –“because my room is too disorganized to find anything.”

“OK first of all, my room is not disorganized. It’s messy. But I know where everything is!”

“If you know where everything is, then how did you forget your book report?”

“And second of all,” Dick continued, ignoring the interruption, “the reason that I’m gonna miss my bus is because you are driving 10 miles below the speed limit!”

Bruce pursed his lips together, to keep from sighing or laughing. There had been discussion, once it was decided that Dick was staying with them, about how he would get to school. Wayne Manor wasn’t on any bus routes– it was too far from the city to go to pick up one student.

The solution had been that Alfred – or Bruce, if he had an early meeting, like he did today – would drive Dick to a bus stop, where he would take the bus the rest of the way to school with the other kids.

Normally it worked fine, but Dick didn’t normally lose his homework on his desk and forget about it until they were almost out of the driveway.

“You’re gonna make us both late you big galoot,” Dick grumbled, punctuating his complaint with a sharp kick to the back of Bruce’s seat.

“Don’t hit the seat,” he snapped, eyes flickering up to glare at Dick’s unrepentant form through the mirror. “You’re not five years old. And you made us late by making us turn around to get your report.” 

“Which wouldn’t be a problem if you would just _drive_!”

Bruce repressed a smile at the exasperation in Dick’s voice. Truthfully, he had no intention of either of them being late. But after a few long nights and sleep-heavy days in a row, it had been too long since it had just been the two of them. And if Bruce had to drive so slow that it was practically painful to stretch out that time, well –

He had been warning Dick to clean his room for weeks.

“I am choosing to follow the law,” Bruce said, easing off the gas and slowing to a few miles per hour below the speed limit. The car itself was a Wayne Enterprise company car – fancy, but not so expensive looking that it was immediately obvious that it was Bruce Wayne inside. Still, it was designed to go much faster than he was driving it right now, and he had to consciously keep his foot off the gas.

“Oh you’re real funny,” Dick muttered. “I’ve been with you in your _other car_ , your skid marks are still all over the highway from –”

“If we were in the _other car_ ,” Bruce interrupted, matching Dick’s ridiculous inflection, “you would have already been ejected for excessive whining.”

He looked up at the rearview mirror just in time to catch Dick fail to hold back a giggle. He met his eyes through the mirror, and Dick narrowed his eyes, though he was still smiling.

“You,” Dick paused for dramatic effect, “are the worst!” Again, he kicked at the back of Bruce’s seat, harder this time. 

Bruce pulsed the gas quickly, sharply enough to make them both jolt forward with the force. He heard a gasp from the backseat. 

“Now that’s more like it! Hit it old-timer!”

Bruce glanced at his watch. It was time to go, if they both wanted to be on time. He pushed down on the gas, and didn’t let up as the world outside started to blur. They continued to accelerate through the curve, and Bruce heard Dick brace his hand against the car as it leaned.

The rest of the drive flew by in a rush of speeding tires, and the sounds of exhilaration from the backseat. There wasn’t anyone else on the road — they were in the rich outskirts, and most inhabitants were still asleep. The only thing to watch for was the occasional squirrel trying to cross the road, but the roar of the engine must have warned them away, because they didn’t see any.

Bruce kept his foot firm on the gas as they turned a corner, barreling towards the bus stop. The only sound in the car was the quiet morning radio show, and Dick’s excited yells and exclamations at particularly sharp turns. It was too bad, Bruce mused as he darted around a pothole, that the road had too many gently sloping curves for him to do anything more intense than going 50 miles an hour over the speed limit.

They made it to the bus stop with two minutes to spare, which was just enough time for Dick to catch his breath and pretend to admonish Bruce for driving so fast (“I said hit the gas, not see if we can break the sound barrier!”).

When the bus did arrive, Dick spared Bruce a quick wave as he hopped up the stairs before plopping down next to his friends in and joining their conversation with wild hand motions.

Bruce watched the bus drive away for a moment, a quiet smile on his face, before turning the car around, heading towards a short-cut to Wayne Enterprises, trying to remember his talking points for the meeting.

 

~

**Vicki Vale**

“Oh for the love of – traffic at this time of night?” Vicki groaned as they turned onto the road, only to hit the brakes at the sight the clogged street ahead of them.

“Do you think there’s an accident up ahead?” Bruce said, stopping well back of the SUV in front of them.

“I guess,” she muttered.

She turned and faced him, a sly smirk under her red bangs. “It’s wrong to hope that it’s something more _villainous_ , huh?”

“Yes, it’s very wrong,” he said, meeting her gaze.

Vicki laughed. “Ahh, it’s just as well. Being stuck in traffic during an attack wouldn’t make for a very good scoop anyway.”

They looked forward again. The sea of brake lights stretched out in front of them far past the traffic lights ahead.

“This is what we get for not going uptown for our date,” she muttered, picking a spare piece of lint off her blue dress.

“This was a date?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No Bruce,” Vicki sighed, rolling her eyes, but she was smiling slightly. 

It really wasn’t a date – at least, not this time. They did occasionally go out formally, though it had been a long time since they went frequently enough to be classified as ‘dating’. Occasionally Vicki would call him to go uptown to one of Gotham’s expensive restaurants, where the cameras flickered like fireworks as they dined.

This usually only happened when Vicki wanted to bring her name back into the tabloids. Bruce certainly didn’t object to her using his name for publicity, especially considering that he benefited just as much when his name showed up in the gossip rags, albeit in a very different way.

But sometimes, like tonight, they would head to one of the little family diners that were secrets around the city. One that lended itself better to talking, rather than being talked about.

He knew they both enjoyed talking to someone else who was invested in helping Gotham. Vicki could freely complain about her uncooperative contacts, or point Bruce in the direction of causes and charities that might not have reached him otherwise.

And, because she spent all day talking to people trying to dig up stories, she had tipped him off more than once onto investigations for Batman to look into.

The traffic light in the distance had turned green, though no one appeared to make any progress forward.

Bruce drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. If the traffic was this clogged at this intersection — which was normally quiet at this time, then it would likely be even worse closer to Vicki’s apartment downtown. It could be well over an hour until Bruce made it back to the Manor.

Jason was going to be disappointed. They hadn’t gone out together as Batman and Robin in almost a week, because of his schoolwork, and an unseasonable cold snap that had only broken a day ago. Jason had been frustrated enough that Bruce had gone out with Vicki and delayed their patrol — he would be downright mad at the further wait.

And Bruce couldn’t disagree.

He looked over his right shoulder, judging the distances of the cars.

There was space.

He was going to cut the car off, but there was space.

“Bruce?” Vicki gasped as he abruptly swerved right, the engine roaring as he slammed on the gas. He merged into the right lane, ignoring the angry blaring honk of the car behind him as he cut them off. They continued forward, cutting into the bike lane to get around a car ahead of them, and turned right down a narrow alley. 

“I think I know a shortcut,” he said calmly, navigating deftly around a pothole. Even if they avoided the worst of the bumpiness in the road, the BMW was going to need to be checked over after. Even the nicest roads in Gotham were unkept, and this shortcut did not include the nice roads.

“You _think_?” she sounded a bit hysterical.

“Well, I’m pretty sure.”

Bruce heard her mutter “Oh my God” to herself, but he didn’t comment.

He turned left out of the alley, tires squealing slightly on the asphalt. There were fewer cars on this street, but it would fill up quickly, once news spread of the congestion on the other street.

They sped down the road — at close to double the speed limit — weaving around cars as they went. The traffic light ahead of them turned yellow, but Bruce didn’t even touch his brakes as they went through the intersection, only slightly running the red light.

“Bruce!” Vicki shrieked, though she couldn’t keep the laughter out of her voice, “are you trying to get us killed?”

“I could slow down. If you want,” he offered, easing on the gas, though he hoped she’d say no. The sun had set and the city was rapidly darkening, and the urge to get to a rooftop with Robinwas an itch under his skin.

“No no, by all means,” she chuckled as they turned right. “I’m not the one who’ll have to pay when the GCPD gives you six digit speeding ticket.”

“It’s not called a ticket when I pay them,” Bruce said.

“Oh no?” she turned and looked at him from under her eyelashes.

Bruce met her gaze before looking back to the road. “It’s called a charitable donation.”

Vicki burst out laughing, throwing her head back.

“If I did get a ticket, you could write a story about that,” Bruce pointed out, blowing through a stop sign without stopping. They were only a minute away from her apartment now.

“Oh Bruce,” she said with a giggle, “rich men driving their cars too fast is the opposite of breaking news.”

 

~

**Clark Kent**

“I can’t believe you stole a car.”

Bruce barely resisted the urge to sigh. They had only been in the car for a few minutes, but they seemed to have had this conversation five times already.

“You didn’t have any other ideas on how to get to the gala, and now we’ll be there soon. I really don’t see what the problem is.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clark turn and look at him, his glare highlighted by his glasses.

Bruce really hadn’t planned on stealing a car today, but he also hadn’t planned on driving to the gala with Clark, and neither of them had planned on getting magically trapped in a building for two hours waiting for a magic user to let them out.

It was supposed to just be a customary look through the abandoned building; a small division of LexCorp had recently purchased it, and they both had wanted to know why. Unfortunately, Luthor had been expecting guests, and had paid a magic user set a trap for trespassers. 

It had provided them ample time to explore the building, and Bruce had found enough evidence of Luthor buying magical protection to have a solid lead, but by the time Zatanna responded to their distress call, they were well and truly late for the gala.

Unfortunately the magic, while not potent enough to physically hurt Clark beyond giving him a headache and fatigue, had sapped enough of his strength to prevent him from flying them. 

They might have been able to get away with not showing up, but Luthor was due to be at the party too, and they couldn’t risk neither of them showing up on the same night that Batman and Superman were temporally trapped in his building.

So Bruce had hotwired a nearby car.

“Would you at least slow down?” Clark asked, holding his head with one hand.

Magic always made him so grumpy.

“This is just how people drive in Gotham,” Bruce said, speeding through a yellow light, “it would stand out more if I didn’t try to run a red light.”

“Oh you’re hilarious,” Clark grumbled, though he hadn’t been joking. “What’s your genius plan for when we crash and have to explain why Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are in a stolen car?”

Bruce slammed on the brakes, avoiding hitting the car that cut them off.

“We are not going to crash,” he said evenly, moving forward again, “And even if we did, you’re the invincible one.” Though that wasn’t technically true at the moment; even a magic-weakened Superman had a better chance at walking away from a car crash than the car.

It was quiet in the car for the moment, the only sound was the occasional honk from outside, and the engine revving. Bruce had chosen to steal this particular car – a Volvo that landed on the expensive side of average – on purpose. It wasn’t so expensive that its theft would be noticed immediately, but it was a good enough car to handle his style of driving.

At his side, Clark leaned forward and turned on the radio, spinning the dial and pushing buttons until the sound of the police scanner filled the car.

“The GCPD has bigger priorities than looking for a car that has been stolen for less than an hour,” Bruce pointed out.

“I just want to listen!” Clark said defensively, turning the volume up.

Bruce rolled his eyes, and took the next turn slightly more sharply than was strictly necessary. He hid a smirk when Clark had to brace his hand against the door through the turn.

The chatter of the police kept them company as they continued their drive, heading north. It was as quiet a night as Gotham ever had, and the reports of suspicious persons and mugging reports kept coming in. In between honking and swerving through the traffic, Bruce kept an ear out for any reports of serious crimes he follow up on later that night. 

“We have a report of a stolen car, black Volvo, last seen on the south side, keep an eye out. Details to follow,” came crackling over the radio.

Clark gestured to the radio with both hands, eyes wide and accusing. 

Bruce sighed. It figured, with the day he was having, that the theft had been noticed so soon. He reminded himself that the GCPD trying to solve a crime was a good thing, even if it was admittedly unfortunate that they had happened to notice this crime.

“It’s fine. We’re almost at the parking garage, I’ll call it in from a payphone there, once you’ve headed to the gala, then I’ll show up a few minutes later.” He pulled into the left lane to go around a slow car, sped around it, and slammed on the breaks to get back into the right lane in time to make his turn.

Clark grumbled something to himself, and Bruce sighed.

“Here,” he said, driving one-handed as he dug through his pocket for his wallet, which he tossed into Clark’s lap, “hide a dozen twenties in the glove box for them. As payment.”

“This is the weirdest part of my day,” Clark said, pulling out some bills, “and I spent two hours in a magic building in downtown Gotham.”

“Would it help if I spill a drink on Luthor later?”

This managed to draw a laugh out of Clark. “Actually, yeah, that would be great.”

 

~

**Jim Gordon**

The only sound the Batmobile made as they drove through the streets was the rough noise of tires grinding over salt that the city had put down in a fruitless attempt to combat the ice and slush.

Bruce turned left through the intersection, ignoring the ‘no left turn’ sign on the traffic light. He held himself upright, and beside him Jim Gordon did the same, though he was holding on to the handle so tightly that Bruce could see his white knuckles. 

The road was deserted; the weather and the hour keeping people off the streets, so Bruce accelerated down the road even faster than he would normally go.

Jim swore under his breath as the speedometer tipped past 80.

“Something wrong?” Bruce asked, turning to look at him through the cowl lenses. Jim’s eyes darted to him, then forward again.

“Would you just keep your eyes on the road?” Jim said tersely between his teeth.

For someone who drove as fast as Jim did when he was the one driving, he was very tense when he was in the passenger seat.

Bruce waited another beat before looking forward again, pushing his lips down against a smile. He took the next turn sharply, letting the back tires fishtail slightly in the slush.

It wasn’t exactly a common occurrence for Jim to ride in the Batmobile, and this particular time had been brought about thanks to the Riddler.

The police had received several complaints of power surges and loud noises near an industrial plant on Gotham’s east side. Batman had gone with them to investigate, suspicious of any reports of irregular electricity uses in less populated areas of the city, especially in places where Nygma tended to aggregate. Their suspicions had been confirmed when a flash of blue from an EMP pulse exploded out of the building, destroying all the police car batteries in the vicinity. It was only a recent update to the shielding that had kept the electronics in his belt, and the Batmobile, safe from the blast.

A quick investigation of the building had revealed that Nygma had left in a hurry, and had sent out the pulse remotely from another location. 

Fortunately for them, Oracle had been right at her computer at the time of the pulse, and had been able to trace the source of the blast to an apartment building in Old Gotham.

Which is where they were heading now.

Bruce pushed down on the gas as he maneuvered around a pothole hidden in the snow. They were only a few blocks away now, and with a bit more luck, they’d be able to get to Riddler without alerting him.

“What the hell is that?” said Jim abruptly, leaning forward.

Something had pulled out of the road right in front of them. Bruce slammed on breaks, and the tires squealed as the Batmobile tried to stop on the slick road. They stopped only a few feet from it.

It looked like an old rectangular drone, about a metre high and wide. 

It also had a bright green question mark on the side. 

Bruce threw the car in reverse and started to back up, but was still close enough to see a panel open on the drone, revealing the tell-tale powering up of one of Riddler’s favoured laser canons. 

The wheels on the Batmobile sent slush flying into the air as Bruce wrenched the car around. The laser pulse hit the side of the car directly over the panel of shielding. Even with the protection, the Batmobile shuddered against the force, jolting him and Jim inside. 

The car’s shielding was the best they could be without compromising on speed, but lasers were difficult to defend against at the best of times, when regulations were followed; and Nygma had never followed a safety limit in his life.

The Batmobile finished its turn and took off like a shot down the road, back the way they came. In the rearview mirror, Bruce watched the tires on the drone spin helplessly on the ice before catching their grip and accelerating after them.

“It’s following!” Jim said, twisting around in his seat to look behind them, “right side!”

Batman swerved hard to the left, and the blast hit the road on their right. The asphalt was scorched where the laser hit.

They raced down the road, the drone right behind them. He reached down, along the control panel, feeling for a switch.

“Left!” Jim yelled.

He jerked the wheel to the right, driving up on the sidewalk to avoid the blast. 

Bruce reached the switch, and the Batmobile’s central taser began to charge. Its symbol flashed on the dashboard when it was activated.

There wasn’t room to try to hit the drone here – the road was too narrow for him to turn around and aim, and the drone had the size advantage of being a smaller target.

He took a hard right turn, speeding through an alley. There was a well-known intersection in Gotham that – thanks to shoddy planning and years of poor management – dipped in the middle. It flooded in the summer, and iced over completely in the winter: Most people knew to avoid it if they could. 

“Where are you–” Jim started to say.

“Fifth intersection,” Bruce interrupted, swerving through the street.

“The ice,” Jim said quietly, almost to himself.

Bruce turned right again, stepping on the gas. The intersection was right in front of them now. 

At the last second he slammed on the breaks. The Batmobile’s wheels stuttered on the ice for a moment, but quickly came to a stop.

From their position, they watched the drone spin through the intersection, wheels spinning uselessly. Bruce waited until it lined up with the taser before firing. The electricity arced away from the Batmobile and into the drone with a burst of sparks. 

They could see the exact moment the electricity overloaded the drone, as the question mark went dark.

They both stared at the now-dead drone. Bruce squeezed and released his grip on the steering wheel, slowing his heart rate.

“We’re close to where he’s hiding. If he’s sending out a drone,” Bruce said slowly.

Jim grunted in acknowledgment, before raising his eyebrows. “Guess we can't drive as fast towing that,” he said optimistically.

Bruce turned his head and shot him a look, and revved the engine.

“Goddammit,” Jim muttered, grabbing the handle again.

 

~

**Cassandra Wayne**

“Cassandra, would you mind fetching the mail?” Alfred asked, walking into the dining room and laying another platter of sandwiches on the table.

Bruce looked up in time to see Cass nodding her head at Alfred, her mouth so full of her sandwich that her cheeks bulged out. He hid a smile and looked back down at the paperwork in front of him, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

The paperwork in question was a report for a case that Duke had been working on. Over the last few days the kids – likely following instruction from Alfred – had been dropping off files for him to look over as an obvious bid to keep him at home. The concussion really hadn’t been that bad, but it was pointless to argue against the minimum week-long rest that was mandatory after all concussions, barring emergencies.

Gotham had at least done her part of staying relatively quiet the last few days, which had made it easier to stay at the Manor, especially with the requests for help on cases that probably wasn’t actually needed.

From the side of his vision he saw Cass reach onto his plate and grab one of his crackers. He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. She met his gaze with a smile, popping his cracker in her mouth before pushing herself away from the table and heading to the doors.

“Will you be needing more crackers, sir?” Alfred asked, voice not betraying his amusement, though his eyes were crinkled in the corners.

“That’s alright Alfred, I was done with them anyway,” he said, looking fondly at where Cass had disappeared.

He left the room a few sandwiches later, and had been walking down the hall for less than a minute before he realized he had a shadow. 

“I thought you were getting the mail,” he said, turning around to look at Cass.

“Come with me.” Her body was relaxed, leaning slightly towards him in her eagerness.

It could not be clearer that she was up to something.

“OK,” he said, and she grinned, and sped past him toward the garage.

He raised his eyebrow at her choice of car – a convertible sports car that was usually only used when he needed to intimidate rich socialites into inflating their donations– but didn’t say anything as he slid into the car next to her. They pulled smoothly out of the garage.

Cass drove like she fought – skilled and precise, never deviating from her side of the road by so much as an inch. She kept the car on the slow side of too fast as they wound down the driveway towards the main road.

They reached the end of the lane, and Cass put the car in park. She unlocked the doors, but didn’t move, instead turned to look at him expectedly.

He barked a laugh, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the car, heading towards the mailbox at the end of the drive.

When he turned around to head back to the car, mail in hand, the convertible roof was retracted, and Cass was sitting in the passenger seat, grinning. He hid his own smile as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“The steering wheel is on this side,” he pointed out, putting the mail down between them and climbing in.

“Your head is better,” she said, ignoring him.

“Nearly,” he agreed, “Two more nights and I’ll be back on patrol.” As much as he wanted to be on the rooftops with them, Alfred’s threats and the possibility of sudden dizziness at heights weren’t worth the risk.

“Then it’s your turn to drive. You’ve been,” she paused, glancing up as she searched for a word, “an ant?”

“An ant,” he repeated slowly, before figuring out what she meant. “Antsy?”

“Yes! Antsy” she grinned, forming the word in her mouth carefully. “You’ve been running in circles in the house. Your head is better, and you need to do something.” She turned to the side, and put her seatbelt on with a decisive click. “So go fast.”

He stared at her a beat longer, and shook his head slightly, hiding his smile. She was ignoring him, looking straight ahead, bouncing one of her legs in anticipation.

He slowly put his seatbelt on with one hand, and as it clicked into place, he hit the gas, taking off in reverse back down the driveway. Pulling back on the emergency brake, he wrenched the steering wheel around, and the car spun around to face the right way again.

Beside him, Cass started to laugh.

He stomped on the pedal again, releasing the e-break, and they took off like a shot. The tires screeched as they rounded the bend, leaving skid marks on the road that would be a pain to explain away later.

The day was warm enough that the wind in his hair was pleasant instead of cold, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Cass put her hands up and wiggle her fingers slowly in the wind.

He pushed down harder on the gas, listening to the engine roar as the grass on either side of the road turned into a green blur. There were no potholes on the driveway, but he ducked and weaved down the road like there were, shaking them both in their seats. 

It took half the time to return to the garage, and Bruce eased off the gas and they coasted for a minute before smoothly stopping. He looked over to Cass beside him. She had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, leaning forward and shaking slightly with giggles. Her cheeks were flushed from laughing and the wind.

She met his gaze with a final smile before planting a kiss on his cheek and grabbing the mail.

“Thanks for the ride!” she said, jumping over the car door and taking off towards the door. He watched her go for a moment with a small smile, before putting the roof back on the car and driving to its parking spot.

 

~

**\+ one time Bruce was the unfortunate passenger**

If Bruce had it his way, he’d be driving himself. But going undercover in one of Penguin’s circles in the Bowery meant that he couldn’t drive up in a car – even one of his old beat-em-ups would be out of place there. So: the need for another driver, who could pick him up after a few hours of scoping out the place. 

There was only one person who was available today. Alfred was busy preparing for a gala that was in a few days, and Cass and Duke were out of town chasing a lead, and Dick was Bludhaven for the rest of the week. Damian had wanted to drive him, and only pointing out that a thirteen year old driving around Gotham would be too suspicious could persuade him to stay home.

Which meant that Tim was driving him.

“Slow down.”

“I’m only going like, five miles over the limit,” Tim said, turning to look at him.

“You are going fifteen over the limit. And keep your eyes on the road,” he grumbled.

“Bruce, don’t get your fake nose in a twist.”

He resisted the urge to sigh. All the kids had been taught to drive in an emergency situation, to duck and weave through traffic and speed safely, but Tim was the only one who drove like the world was ending all the time. He readjusted his grip on the handle. 

“So,” Tim said, over-exaggerating a glance in the rearview mirror, “Is this about those new guns used in that shooting last week?”

“We’ll know in a few hours,” Bruce grunted.

Tim nodded his head as he changed lanes.

“Did you check your blind spot?” he asked.

“No, I decided to just wing it and kill us all,” Tim said without missing a beat. “ _You’re_ the one who taught me to drive!”

Bruce said nothing, choosing to glare out the dashboard window. It was a rare sunny day in Gotham, and he took a second to curse the bright weather for preventing him from being able to park the Batmobile in the shadows and driving himself.

“Is the pick-up still the bakery on Albert?” Tim asked, turning right and narrowly avoiding cutting off a pedestrian.

“Yes,” he paused, still looking ahead, “Unless you drive _through_ it first.”

Tim laughed. “You are such a coward! I’m not that bad a driver.”

“You’re taking up two lanes right now,” Bruce pointed out, looking at Tim through the coloured contacts.

“No one is using the other one, it’s fine.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. “I should have just driven.”

“Oh yeah, because you’re such a normal, average driver.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you enjoyed, or come find me on [ Tumblr](http://batwayneman.tumblr.com)!


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